


carry on wayward son

by fervourandlore



Category: Buzzfeed The Try Guys (Web Series)
Genre: Author knows nothing about parenting, But neither does Eugene, Eugene didn't sign up for this, Gen, Kid Fic, Listen to your parents kids, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:26:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fervourandlore/pseuds/fervourandlore
Summary: Wes swallows, the fact that he had run away from home finally hits him and he feels like he’s about to just sink into the pavement. His lower lip wobbles and he struggles not to cry.Oh no, his parents were going to kill him.





	carry on wayward son

**Author's Note:**

> So I started re-watching Try Guy's videos for the nth time while procrastinating. Saw some people as I was scrolling through comments about how 'if Wes runs away from home he's probably going to end up at Eugene's house' and, bam, this happened.
> 
> Did I make an entire new AO3 account so I can drop this? Maybe.
> 
> If any of the Try Guys or Try Wives find this though (especially Ned or Ariel or Eugene) and ask for it to be taken down, it will absolutely disappear without notice so please, you have been warned. But I hope they don't take offence to my hypothetical situation about bb Wes and his little misguided trip away from home.
> 
> Until then, _-clears throat and puts on non-existent youtuber voice-_ enjoy and let me know what you guys think in the comments below.

 

“But you _promised!_ ”

 

“Wes-”

 

“No! I hate you!”

 

Wes yanks the front door open and then slams it behind him harder than he’s ever dared to in his entire life, one hastily donned sneaker nearly falling off but the nine year old doesn’t stop, just keeps running as fast as he can, thin coltish legs slapping against the pavement with each stride. He can hear his mom opening the door, yelling for him to stop and “ _Come back right now, Wesley Fulmer!_ ” but he doesn’t pause, adrenaline and childish indignation more than enough fuel for him to outstrip his mother.

 

He’s mad, so mad, too mad to stop, too mad to even think about where he’s headed.

 

It just wasn’t fair, he had been looking forward to going on that trip for _months_. They had _promised_ that they would take him, that he could go to the training camp with the rest of his soccer team. But now suddenly it was all, “ _Oh, Wes, mommy’s so sorry but daddy might out of town for work that week and your sister has her dance recital. I’m not sure if we can chaperone for the training camp anymore.”_

 

After what feels like an eternity later, Wes slows down, breathing hard as he slows to a stop near the curb, kicking at a loose stone in irritation. It wasn’t _fair_ that his sister’s dance recital was more important than his training camp! It wasn’t _fair_ that his dad had promised to take him to the training camp but was cancelling because of work. It just wasn’t _fair_ and Wes hated them for lying to him, and everyone at school always thought his parents were the “cool parents” but they _weren’t_ and he hated how everyone keeps thinking they are anyways.

 

Cool parents would let him go to the training trip without insisting one of them had to be there with him because it was out of state.

 

Cool parents wouldn’t break their promises just to make some _stupid_ youtube video.

 

A breeze blows by and Wes shivers; it’s spring now but it’s getting dark and without the sun it’s still a bit chilly. He turns and starts trudging towards Jason’s house before coming to a stop after walking for half a block; it was a Thursday night which means Jason’s got music lessons after school and Uncle Keith always took Jason out for KFC afterwards. If he went over to their house right now, the only one home would be Aunt Becky and she was going to call him mother and march him straight home; there’s no way he wants that to happen. Wes swallows, stomach dropping at the thought, the fact that he had run away from home finally hitting him and he feels like he’s about to just sink into the pavement.

 

Oh man, he actually _ran away from home._ His mother was going to be so mad and his dad was going to be _livid_ when he got home from work to find out what Wes had done. He was going to be grounded forever, he was probably never going to be able to leave the house again, left alone go to the training camp.

 

Wes swallowed, hard. Okay, he _definitely_ can’t go home now. Maybe like, a thousand years later when his parents had calmed down, but absolutely not now. He shivers again at the wind picks up, the sun’s rays were just barely peaking out over the horizon at this point. So where could he go?

 

He can’t go to any of his friends houses because their parents were also going to send him right back and maybe call the cops on him (was he breaking any laws? Wes doesn’t really know but he’d rather be safe than sorry). No one else lives within walking distance and Wes wracks his brain for a moment before plopping himself down on the curb, yanking his left shoe off and pulling the inner sole free to fish out the tenner his dad gave him for emergencies. The bill probably smells something awful but Wes doesn’t care, jogging lightly towards the nearest bus stop.

 

The next bus that pulls up is thankfully where he needs to go so maybe some higher power out there was looking out for him too. Wes hands the tenner to the bus driver who gives him a _look_ before handing him back some change without a word. He mutters his thanks because his parents didn’t raise a rude child (oh God, _his_ _parents_ ) and Wes makes his way to the back of the bus, finding a seat for the near thirty minute trip. He dozes off and almost misses his stop but thankfully, the bus hits a massive pothole that sends half the people standing flying and jolts him awake in time to jab his finger into the button requesting the next stop.

 

He’s small enough that it’s relatively easy to squeeze through the crowd and get off at the rear doors, making a left and walking five minutes towards the luxury high rise building anyone could see from a mile away. Wes pulls the reinforced glass doors open with slight difficulty, punches in the security code he’s had memorized since he was six, and slips into the lobby, breathing in that airy, rich people air freshener management always insisted on wafting everywhere. He nods at the security guard politely and then keeps walking like he’s supposed to be there, heading to the elevators on the right and pressing the up button.

 

It takes a few moments for it to arrive but then he’s on his way to the twenty-first floor, tapping his feet nervously. He’s almost on autopilot and before he knows it, Wes is staring up at the soft brass numbers that declare this to be unit 2104 and he enters the passcode for the electronic lock with slightly shaking fingers, though whether it was because he was cold or nervous, Wes doesn’t know anymore.

 

The lock whirs quietly and then clicks open and Wes reaching out to the handle quickly to pull it open.

 

“…just got home, no I haven’t seen him. I’ll grab my keys and head over to your area to help with the search, he couldn’t have gone far and your neighbourhood is pretty safe. Don’t worry, Ariel, we’ll find him.”

 

Wes winces as he shuffles awkwardly into the apartment, letting the door swing shut quietly behind him but his uncle hears the sound anyways and spins around.

 

“…speak of the devil, Ariel, your little hell-spawn just showed up in my apartment. Do you want to talk to him?”

 

“I’m not going back!” Wes blurts out, backing towards the door and his uncle takes one step towards him and then stops when it looks like Wes is about to bolt, thin chest heaving, cheeks blotchy from the cold.

 

“Ariel,” he hears his uncle say, raising his voice to be heard over his mother’s ‘oh thank gods’, “Wes is here and he’s safe, but he looks really worked up right now and so are you. Why don’t we give everyone a bit of time to calm down and I’ll try to talk to him. He can stay the night if he needs to.”

 

Wes deflates at the words, watching as his uncle talks his frantic mother down before she agrees to give them both some time to calm down and hangs up the phone. His uncle puts the phone down and then looks at him, one eyebrow raised and looking utterly unimpressed.

 

“Well? You ran all the way here, going to come in properly and say hello or are you just going to hover around my front foyer?”

 

“….hi Uncle Gene,” Wes mutters, kicking his shoes off and toeing on his house slippers, making his way into the living room before flopping onto the couch dramatically.

 

“Hello to you too, brat,” his uncle is standing over him in seconds, dropping a plush throw over his head by way of greeting that Wes is more than happy to pull around himself and snuggle into, “I hope you know you’re in a _lot_ of trouble.”

 

“I knoooow,” Wes whines, flipping over to groan into a cushion, “Mom is going to kill me and then dad is going to kill me, and then Nan and Pops are going to call and lecture me for hours before I get grounded forever. Can I just stay here with you?”

 

Uncle Eugene snorts, sitting down beside where Wes is resting and the nine year old is quick to wiggle over until he’s burrowed against his uncle’s side, the other man lifting his arm with a begrudging expression as if he hasn’t cuddled with Wes a bajillion times already. “You wish kid, you already owe me like ten thousand dollars in cleaning costs for all the suits you’ve slobbered over and thrown up on over the years. If we add on rent, you’re never going to able to pay me back.”

 

“But Uncle Gene!” Wes drags out the syllables, putting on his best puppy eyes and looking for sympathy, “If I go back I’m going to _die_. Like literally die.”

 

“Nope,” his uncle pops the ‘p’, turning him down while his left hand comes up to start stroking Wes’ hair calmingly in the same breath, “Not happening. You gotta take responsibility for your own actions, kid, and running away means you get punished.”

 

“It’s _their_ fault anyways,” Wes grumbles, “They lied to me and I _hate_ them.”

 

“ **Wesley** _.”_

 

His uncle’s voice is hard and he's using Wes' full name.

 

He never uses Wes' full name.

 

Wes stiffens before turning his face away stubbornly, hiding in his uncle’s chest and refusing to look at him. Suddenly all he can think about was how resentment had burned red-hot in his stomach at the news his mother gave him, and the hurt look on her face when he shouted that he hated her and ran. Hot tears start welling up in his frustration, running over his cheeks and soaking through his uncle’s dress shirt in seconds as Wes chokes on his guilt; Uncle Gene doesn’t get it, this was stupid, _he_ was stupid. And Wes hates crying because he’s supposed to be old enough to not do this now but once he starts he can’t stop and then he’s sobbing, pulling the blanket closer as everything just feels too overwhelming all at once.

 

There’s a sigh somewhere above his head and then his uncle picks him up a bit until he’s pulled Wes into his lap and into an awkward hug, hand smoothing up and down his back as Wes just clutches onto the man’s shirt and sobs even harder.

 

“Brat, Wes, stop- don’t cry, you know I don’t know how to deal with crying,” his uncle sounds half-exasperated and half-panicked as he always does when Wes cries, rocking him back and forth in his lap like he's done ever since Wes was just a child and he can’t help but giggle through the tears, knowing exactly what look his uncle was wearing right now.

 

“ ‘m not crying,” he protests even as he sniffles, pulling back and wiping roughly at his eyes.

 

“Right,” Uncle Eugene deadpans, hand coming up to gently smooth away his tears, “and you totally didn’t get snot all over the front of my shirt again.”

 

“I didn’t,” Wes agrees, giggling as he looks at look of disgust on Uncle Eugene's face as he looks down on the mess Wes had left all over his dress shirt.

 

Wes wiggles off his uncle’s lap and then curls up against his side again with a little sigh, hiccuping softly as the exhaustion hits him all at once. They sit in silence for minutes before Wes feels his eyes start to droop, limbs feeling heavy as all the adrenaline finally dies out, the tears seeming to have swept the hormones clean out of his system.

 

“You wanna talk to me kid? Tell me what’s going on?”

 

“Can we talk later?” Wes yawns, making himself comfortable on the couch, wiggling around until he’s laying down with his head pillowed on his uncle’s lap, “I’m really _really_ tired.”

 

“Putting it off doesn’t mean it’s going to go away,” his uncle warns softly even as he leans back and reaches for the tv remote, silently resigning himself to a numb leg and being a pillow for the next hour or so, “We’re still going to talk and you’re still going to have to explain and then call to apologize to your mother for scaring her and running away.”

 

“……I know,” Wes sighs, “I’ll do it later, promise, scouts honour.”

 

“You haven’t joined the scouts yet, brat.”

 

“But dad was one,” Wes protests, “It counts! It’s, it’s um, hereratory.”

 

“It’s ‘hereditary’, kid, and no, it isn’t. God, what did I do to deserve this?” he hears his uncle complain, “I didn’t have kids for a reason and yet I’m still parenting someone else’s hell-spawn.”

 

“I’m your _favourite_ nephew _,”_ Wes reminds him smartly, blinking sleepily as he watches his uncle flick through Netflix channels, “You _have_ to put up with me.”

 

“You’re not really my nephew, brat,” Uncle Eugene deadpans even as he carefully tucks the throw more firmly around Wes and smoothes his hair back, “I don’t _have_ to do anything.”

 

“But you do it anyways because you love me,” Wes yawns around the words, a larger one this time.

 

He starts to doze off to the sound of some Korean variety show playing lowly in the background, letting his uncle’s rhythmic petting lull him to sleep, almost missing the quiet response.

 

“……yeah kid, I do, I really do.”

 

 


End file.
